


A Brother's Concern

by robotfvckers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Bad Touch, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Implied/Referenced Incest, In Public, M/M, NSFW Art, Pining, Threesome - M/M/M, mon and zen are not blood brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-17 08:06:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11271465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: Every few weeks Mondatta disappears for the night. This time, Zenyatta follows.





	A Brother's Concern

**Author's Note:**

> [Cyber](http://cyberrat.tumblr.com/) was gracious enough to let me post my bonus that was part of her [OW fic compilation](http://cyberrat.tumblr.com/post/161709910267/the-very-special-fic-compilation-vol-7-is-here)! Please check it out if you haven't already!
> 
>  
> 
> **Please be warned that there is nsfw art at the end provided by the wonderful[kirinlust](http://kirinlust.tumblr.com/)!**

Zenyatta knows by the desperate gleam in Mondatta’s eyes that tonight will be the night. He’s not sure how long his brother has done this, but he knows by the tightness of his face, the stiff, near undetectable tenseness of his serene demeanor, that he will go.

This time, Zenyatta is ready.

He rifles through what little he owns, tucked safely in a false bottom of an old dresser drawer. His hand traces the dark, stitched lettering on the crown of a hat, tucks it carefully in his satchel along with a pair of old jeans, a hooded jacket, a v-neck tee, and a set of high tops. It wasn’t against the teachings to own such clothing, but he worries for his appearance, and his eight jeiba burn with phantom sensation.

 

* * *

 

Zenyatta tugs at his hood for the third time since he arrived. He knows his markings are concealed, but he feels exposed, even in the dim, neon gloom. He scans the crowd for his brother, panic growing steadily the longer he does not see him. He sips his drink to distract himself, the first option in the list the waitress mentioned. It’s too sugary-sweet to drink quickly, and he chokes a little, rolls his tongue against the roof of his mouth. At least the tingling burn stops him from bolting, liquid courage soothing his anxiousness.

He angles towards the bar again and spots the unmistakeable shaven pate of his brother, on display for all to see.

Zenyatta stumbles to his feet.

 _We must maintain a certain appearance_. Mondatta had told him as he stitched the tattered hem of a younger Zenyatta’s pants. _One day we will be masters. People will look up to us, others will seek to destroy us. We must not offer them the chance._

Mondatta turns, and Zenyatta sees the smooth blankness of his forehead, the signs of mastery concealed to match the tones of his face. The gloomy, shifting light catches the golden paint beneath each of his brother’s eyes and the slip-shine gleam of his lips when he smiles.

Zenyatta falls into his seat, feeling numb, blooming heat gather in his face. Mondatta is _made-up_. Made up and drinking something far less pink and sugary than Zenyatta is: a short, amber glass clasped in his elegant hands. The hard flush spreads as Mondatta converses with the man next to him: a giant, muscled and scarred, with white hair tickling the base of his impossibly thick neck. Mondatta speaks, and the man booms with laughter, clapping his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

No shambali ever touched Mondatta so openly, so _casually_ , no one but—

Mondatta laughs in turn, and though Zenyatta can’t hear it, his mind supplies the sound: beautiful and deep, like temple chimes.

He knows the laugh is genuine by the way Mondatta’s eyes crinkle at the edges, how he covers his mouth with the tips of his fingers. Zenyatta tips back the rest of his drink, ignoring the burst of syrupy sweetness.

Mondatta never laughed that way in front of anyone.

Zenyatta orders another drink when the waitress checks on him, his eyes never leaving his brother and the stranger. Somewhere between the second and third glass, when his vision softens at the edges and warmth coils low in his belly, Mondatta slips his hand atop the man’s thigh.

Zenyatta stills as the man leans over and drapes his hand on Mondatta’s waist. The fabric of Mondatta’s shirt presses tight to his body at the point of contact, loose, translucent fabric showing off the long, slight form beneath.

He shakes his head, and his vision swims. Zenyatta closes his eyes and counts back from ten.

When he opens them, Mondatta and the man are moving towards the back door, pressed tightly to each other’s sides. The man’s hand shifts and cups the smooth swell of Mondatta’s ass, and Zenyatta _swallows_. He doesn’t count the money he tosses on the table.

Standing brings another wave of dizziness, and Zenyatta steadies himself against the table. Panic catches in his chest as he tracks the white-haired giant above the crowd, slipping further and further away with each passing second.

A hand catches around his wrist.

“Hey, there.” Someone murmurs over the music, too close, the words warming the shell of his ear. His hood is tugged down, and Zenyatta freezes.

“Why don’t you keep us company? What’re you drinking?” A gruff voice says from his right. Zenyatta picked the darkest spot in the bar, and he can’t see their faces. Bigger. Male. The men crowd around him, and their heat bleeds into his body.

“Please excuse me.” Zenyatta slurs, trying to tug his hand free. The grip tightens, and the stranger’s thumb strokes over his thundering pulse.

“What’s your hurry? You’re alone, right?” The man asks, soft and easy, like he’s afraid to startle him.

A hand at his lower back, damp and calloused, slips beneath his jacket. It trails along his spine, and Zenyatta shudders, each press pulsing between his hips.

They’re so _close_. Lips skirt his ear, words lapping like waves against his mind.

“Dance with us.”

Fingers splay against his stomach, hot like a brand. His nipples bleed through the thin cotton of his shirt. Zenyatta squirms, and the man tugs his wrist with a chuckle.

“Oh, he likes it.” One murmurs, traces his finger up the middle of his chest, skirting the edge of one hardened peak.

It feels _good_ , the gentle, teasing touches, and when the teasing turns to pinching and _tugging_ , Zenyatta _gasps_ , arching before he can stop himself. It’s hard to think about his mission when lips catch beneath his ear, the wet press searing through his body. It’s distracting enough that when they lead him onto the dance floor he almost gets lost in the pulse of the music, trapped between their bodies.

Hands settle on his waist, guiding him to the rhythmic pulse of the song. The other man slips in front of him, so close, and murmurs appreciatively against the column of his throat.

“Let us take care of you.”

And in the fray, in that moment, he lets them, the ache of his brother an abstract at the edge of his jumbled thoughts. The song blurs into something pounding and bass-heavy, and it’s hard to tell how much time passes. His liquor-addled brain can’t find the strength to extract himself, intoxicated by the warmth of their lips, their hands, their words.

Then the man flattens against his back, and he feels the hot outline of his cock through his jeans. The hands at his hips tighten as the man grinds against him, and the lips at his throat turn to teeth.

The sharp, unfamiliar feeling startles him; slicing through the warm, comfortable alcohol induced haze. He remembers his brother with a sudden burst of guilt.

Zenyatta twists out of their hands, sharply elbowing one to the side as he tries to reinforce the hold on his hips; he hears the short grunt of pain during a lull in the music. Burning with shame, head woozy and throbbing, he winds out of the radius of the two men that had tried and nearly succeeded in seducing him. His goal materializes fresh and sharp in his mind. He escapes from the dance floor, panting and frenzied, sweat flattening his clothes to his body.

It feels like he’s watching someone else approach the door until he’s finally in front of it. Zenyatta fumbles at the handle, weak and uncoordinated and more than a little afraid.

A row of doors greets him, the space darker than the bar and twice as ominous. He focuses on the sole, murky light at the end of the hall, willing his vision to sharpen, everything still too fuzzy, too hot.

Zenyatta removes his hat quickly, tugs his hood up to hide his marks, slightly cooler with one less layer. He hesitates. Sighs. Biting his lower lip, Zenyatta adjusts his cock, sticky and hard against his thigh.

Most of the doors are closed, but as Zenyatta stumbles forward, he sees one slightly ajar, light trickling between the gap.

Then he hears it. Whispering. Whimpering. A deep, booming voice, kept to a low purr. The gentle smack of skin on skin, constant and even. Zenyatta stares at the door, hand trembling over the handle.

 

* * *

 

His fingers flex against the wood at his back. Zenyatta stares with wide eyes at the white-haired man. His shirt is buttoned, pants opened just enough to expose his huge, flushed cock, the same cock that’s slotting with thick, wet sounds into his brother, face down and naked on the bed.

“M-mondatta.” Zenyatta whispers, catches his whimper behind his hand as his brother tilts his head to look at him, face florid, glossy lips smeared and swollen and mouthing against the sheets. His eyes burn, glassy and blown dark, rolling up as the man fucks into him with a leisurely flex of his hips. He mouths Zenyatta’s name, but no words escape, only fluttery, soft cries. Zenyatta watches his brother bury his face into the comforter and _roll_ his hips, fucking back on the man’s cock.

“Oh, you like that?” The man says in accented english, glancing at Zenyatta with curiosity and faint amusement.

Zenyatta bristles, pointedly staring at the floor, but he can’t block out Mondatta’s moans, sensual and deep, unlike anything he could’ve imagined. Not that he had imagined. He never thought —

“You know his name.” The man says, never slowing, not an ounce of shame evident in his posture, his features, like he’s used to being watched. “I take it you are also one of the shambali. A brother, or close enough to one.”

Mondatta cries out, mewling into the sheets, sounds muffled by mattress. He reaches back to grab the man’s huge hand locked on his hip, swivels his own body, _urging_ him forward.

“Ssh, _Schätzchen_. Ask properly.” His eyes never leave Zenyatta. “Like I taught you.”

Mondatta growls petulantly, complaining with a child-like stubbornness Zenyatta’s never heard before. He untucks his face, gasping, too loud without the sheets to stifle him.

“Please. Fuck me harder.” Mondatta manages, voice cracking on a lilt as the man complies with a quick snap of his hips, muscles clenching in a fluid ripple.

Zenyatta _burns_ at the sound, still too overwhelmed to look, vision doubling the slats on the floor.

“Look at him. He _wants_ you to see. He would speak up otherwise.”

Zenyatta shakes, one fist trembling at his side, the other hand tight across his mouth. Why won’t Mondatta fight? Send him away? _Anything_.

Then, as deep and desperately as a dream, his brother groans.

“ _Zenyatta._ ”

Zenyatta sinks his teeth into his lower lip, head snapping up. The man grasps Mondatta’s hips with both hands, dwarfing his brother’s body, alabaster enclosing amber, pulling Mondatta’s back flush to his stomach.

Zenyatta drinks in the sight of Mondatta’s nipples peaked and swollen, cock long and pretty and pearled, trembling just below the dip of his heaving stomach, bulged from the cock lazily filling him. His brother tucks his chin to his chest, eyes fluttering shut, thighs quaking, but the man holds him upright.

“Come now. Let your brother see how sexy you are.” The man cranes over Mondatta, speaks directly into his ear. “You want him to touch you?”

Mondatta whines, head dipping in a desperate nod as his dick pulses, pre-cum dribbling down his cock. Zenyatta’s tongue swells, and he clenches his own thighs together to keep himself standing, to stave off the need to fuck into the channel of his hand while this stranger fucks his brother.

“Go on. Ask him for it. You know how.”

Mondatta’s gaze burns, zigzagging down Zenyatta’s flushed neck, his chest, landing on his cock straining at his zipper, _settling there_. His brother’s pink tongue darts out, catching his lower lip. Zenyatta moans, unbidden, into his hand.

“Please, Zenyatta. _Please_.”

 

* * *

 

Zenyatta’s jaw aches, and he struggles to breathe, but it doesn’t matter, not when Mondatta quakes above him, moaning his name, begging with nonsense words and old, childhood endearments. The man fucks Mondatta like he’s not sobbing his brother’s name like a prayer, tweaking his swollen nipples, idly staring down the line of Mondatta’s body to Zenyatta lying beneath them, taking the smooth, deep roll of Mondatta’s spit-slick cock in his mouth.

“You are doing well, young one. You must love him dearly.”

Zenyatta’s hands flex against Mondatta’s thighs, focusing on his brother’s euphoric expression, his tears landing on Zenyatta’s jieba, instead of the man’s praise and how it makes him feel: tingling and hot all over, like he’s stroking him with words.

Zenyatta grips the base of his leaking cock as Mondatta pitches forward, thrusting deep, forcing Zenyatta’s nose into the soft, heady warmth of Mondatta’s stomach. He swallows, relaxes his throat as the man instructed. He can’t deny how much it makes him ache, but somehow he craves the pain, toes curling and fingers flexing against his brother’s skin.

Mondatta’s voice breaks, pealing into nepalese, though Zenyatta can hardly understand, whimpering as his brother pulses, thrusts forward and holds, lodged so deep in his throat it bulges. Something hot and thick fills him, and Zenyatta chokes, tugs his head to the side and coughs while Mondatta ruts against his cheek, saying his name over and over as the man milks his orgasm from him with deep, punishing thrusts, motions finally sporadic. Close. _Close._ The man growls into Mondatta’s shoulder wordlessly, his brother’s eyes rolling into his skull as he’s filled, a few more pearls of Mondatta’s cum catching Zenyatta’s face.

Mondatta touches him then, drags his fingers through the thick streaks of spend along his cheek, traces his brother’s swollen lips as Zenyatta’s gasps raggedly, voice rough and unrecognizable.

“Beautiful.” His brother says, eyes blitzed and wild. Zenyatta moans his name, tears burning at the edge of his vision. His cock pulses in his hand, but he doesn’t want it to end, wants Mondatta to stare at him, _only_ him, for as long as the Iris wills.

The man withdraws and shifts back against the headrest with a content huff. Mondatta crawls down his brother’s body, nose brushing against Zenyatta’s, lips catching, breathing his brother’s air.

“Zenyatta.”

He kisses him, tongue dipping into his slack, aching mouth, and Zenyatta surges, cupping Mondatta’s neck, keeping him close, tongue swirling eagerly, sharing his brother’s spend with him like it’s nothing, like they both crave it.

Mondatta tugs Zenyatta’s hand from his cock with a few eager presses, and then he’s touching it with his long, smooth fingers, dragging lazily along its length. Zenyatta cries into his brother’s mouth, and he feels Mondatta smile. His brother shifts his hips, and he’s nudging against his wet, fucked soft hole.

Zenyatta tosses his head back, keening while Mondatta sinks down on him in one fluid motion, so soft and slick and molten inside. His brother captures his hands above his shoulders, interlocking their fingers and pinning him while he sobs and tries not to come while Mondatta takes him. The wet, suckling noises of their coupling batter his ears. Their first time, eager and sloppy, with another man’s cum easing their way.

“Ssh. Do not fret, brother.” Mondatta coos shakily into his neck, kissing, sucking while he rocks his hips down, moaning, controlling, claiming Zenyatta.

Zenyatta strains against him, hips burning as he fucks up into Mondatta, chasing his brother’s body when it recedes, hands clenching Mondatta’s fingers so hard it hurts, but Mondatta doesn’t relent, keeps meeting him sweetly, like he’s made for it.

His orgasm hits like a wall, a swollen ache that rips through him in pulses as thunderous as his heartbeat; Mondatta’s teeth sink into his throat and he swears his brother’s name on a broken sob, whimpering and trembling his way through, Mondatta undulating, forcing more and more from him until his vision blackens.

 

Art by [kirinlust](https://kirinlust.tumblr.com)

 

* * *

 

He returns, hazy and sore, to Mondatta kissing him, soft, chaste pecks at his lips that deepen as easily as breathing when Zenyatta opens his mouth.

Mondatta gingerly rolls them to their sides, catches his thumb against his mark on his brother’s throat, eyes thinning with muted heat. Zenyatta traces Mondatta’s jieba, smoothing away what little makeup remains, studies the perfect nine-point alignment.

His brother smiles, catches Zenyatta’s hand to kiss his palm.

“You are worried. You need not be.” Mondatta says, tired but content.

Zenyatta hums and glances towards the man, now bespectacled, on the bed. He’s studying a holopad that looks comically small in his large hands.

“He is a friend. We are safe.”

Zenyatta closes his eyes and sighs. Then, he smiles and nestles into the crook of Mondatta’s neck, the smell comforting and familiar, though the way his brother kisses him beneath his ear is not: a new frightening, exhilarating sensation.

“I trust you.”


End file.
